


Five scenes from a scene, and one of aftercare

by ginger_rude



Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Age Play, BDSM, Corsetry, Established Relationship, Needles, Nonbinary Character, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rope Bondage, Sex Magic, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:28:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28825965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginger_rude/pseuds/ginger_rude
Summary: Apparently I wasn't quite ready to move on fromMon péché mignon(a novel length Q/E work which in turn is the third part of a bigger work,For Want of a Nail.A five-and-one of Q and Eliot playing together.This takes place between the second to last and final chapters ofMon péché mignon.  For people who haven't read it, all you need to know for this mostly stand-alone piece is that Q and Eliot are in an established relationship, kink is a part of their lives, and Q has recently come to realize that they're some flavor of enby, and now goes by "they" pronouns.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 19
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

It turns out that they do like rope, after all. Not so much tying, but wearing. No scratchy jute, no thin cords; but the soft heavy weight of thick nylon adds a dimension that magical pin-downs and pin-backs don’t quite satisfy. Eliot’s fingers are nimble enough for the intricate knots, certainly. The exercise is good for both of them. Eliot swallows his impatience in the service of pleasing Q, and in the interest of learning something new. Q, for their part, finds the slowness and careful attention to be almost hypnotic. There’s the tingle they’ve learned recently is called “ASMR” while the rope is laid on. Then, sitting quietly in their bonds, they sometimes drop into a quiet, meditative state that they’d never managed to achieve or even really get what it was supposed to _be_ before. 

For Q, that can be enough by itself, but Eliot much prefers tying as a prelude to what he considers the main event, so they experiment. Eliot’s still big into the illusion magic. One day, after trussing Q as carefully and lovingly as one of his roasted chickens, Eliot conjures up a distressingly cold and solid set of railroad tracks, to which he firmly secures Q. He then sits back on a green slope and waits, casually munching an apple. The knowledge that none of it is real does not, in fact, make the sensation any less terrifying, not least when Eliot stands, tosses the core between the tracks nearest Q’s feet, and disappears over the side of the hill just as the whistle sounds. Q, who’s somehow managed to restrain themself from vocalizing until now, calls, begs, pleads, damn near pisses themself, tries frantically to wiggle free, wishing fervently that they’d studied up on Houdini when they still thought magic was a matter of top hats and misdirection. 

The train is literally seconds away when Eliot reappears, swiftly slices Q’s bonds, and drags them to safety just as it screams past. Q’s shuddering goes on for quite a while. The release is enormous and almost as terrifying, at first, as the train was. But when it’s finished, Q feels so much more solid, more _here,_ held solidly and safely to the green earth. As though gravity could be as good at holding Q as Eliot, or even a strong piece of rope.


	2. Chapter 2

The corset comes as a surprise, too, considering how much they loathe most constrictive clothing, at least to wear themself (Q can look at pretty people dressed in skintight shiny black all day long). At least, they like it for short intervals. It’s got that oddly comforting feeling of being held. The enforced short shallow breaths are actually a respite from self-conscious deep breathing. 

Margo picked out the silver satin corset and laced Q into it herself. Before that, Q got to play lady’s maid and help dress Margo and Fen and Vi in their turn, enjoying the feelings of competence and usefulness. Not to mention the tactile pleasures of handling the Fillorian and earthly finery: the differing slipperinesses of silk and latex (Margo and Fen, and Vi, respectively); the luxuriant feel and intricate buttoning of actual kid gloves. 

Now all four of them sit around the delicate table with its spindly legs, eating little cakes and chatting merrily to the strains of Emilie Autumn and her harpsichord. 

Margo glances down at the emptying platter and rings the tiny bell. Eliot was going to be nude, but Fen didn’t quite understand why and in any case didn’t love the idea of naked bits around the food. In the end they went with an impeccable maitre d’s tuxedo. 

As Eliot sets the fresh plates down, Margo announces, “My feet hurt.”

Swiftly as Eliot kneels and reaches for one small foot, Margo’s already shaking her head. She clicks her tongue and fingers and points down. Eliot goes to hands and knees. Margo props her booted feet on his back. 

“That’s better,” she says cheerfully, so Q follows her example, crossing one foot over the other. 

“You’re right,” they say. “That is more comfortable.” 

In the background, Emilie, now through with delicacy, bellows that it’s time for tea. The four of them click cups. Indeed it is.


	3. Chapter 3

They start officially playing with it around the same time they start experimenting in public, and often simultaneously. It’s subtle at first. Eliot takes Q firmly by the hand while crossing the street, and from the outside, it just looks like a gesture any loving boyfriend would make. Or, in a restaurant, Eliot will choose and order for both of them. Simple.

Later, the excursions get more elaborate but not much more overt: a trip to FAO Schwartz wherein Q will pick something out, Eliot will buy it, and they’ll politely decline a gift wrap. Then, it’ll be more like: Eliot buys Q a shiny latex balloon to carry home. They’ll be eating in a booth, and Eliot will cut Q’s food for them, Q trying desperately not to look to see if anyone’s watching. On these occasions, Q asks Eliot’s permission before excusing themself to the restroom. So far, he’s always said yes.

So far.

And all the while, Eliot’s just using a slightly exaggerated version of the voice he frequently slips into anyway: that tender-yet-patronizing drawl that makes Q squirm and flush and not infrequently want to murder him even as—or because—their pants feel too tight all of a sudden.

One day, they’re out running errands. Q’s been bitching about something or other, tired of shopping and ready to go back. Abruptly, in the middle of the sidewalk, Eliot pulls up short. He looks both up and down the mostly-empty street, swiftly pulls Q into an alley, turns them around and swats their behind, just once but hard enough to bring tears to their eyes.

Eliot takes Q’s chin by the thumb and forefinger.

“If you’re going to whine like a toddler, I’ll treat you like one, and I mean in _every_ way, starting right now. Is that what you want?”

“No.”

“No, what?” Eliot demands.

“No…” They’ve negotiated and experimented a fair amount over this. “No, Papa Eliot.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Papa Eliot.”

“All right, then.”

There’s no more talk out of the ordinary after that; but, in the drugstore, Eliot leads them out of the way down the baby aisle, casting a significant look at them as he goes.

Q is good for the rest of the day.

And there are other occasions where Q doesn’t even really need Eliot to just drop down and watch cartoons, color, read an old favorite. It comes as a jolt one day to realize they’ve been so contentedly in the zone that they almost—almost—could stand to read a Fillory book again.


	4. Chapter 4

They’re still not really clear on what “masochism” means. Because sometimes, of course, the “pain” is just intense sensation that actually feels pretty damn good. Other times, it absofuckinglutely feels like pain and he hates every second of it, but it also feels good to—to know that they can stand it, Q supposes. An ordeal _(so romantic)_. Sometimes it feels good because Eliot’s the one doling it out; but, other than caning and paddling, dishing out pain isn’t really Eliot’s wheelhouse. 

He’ll watch, though. Eliot always likes to watch. Out of concern, and also because he’s a voyeur. And Q—Q likes being watched by Eliot. They don’t even just want him to be proud, either; the odd wince or look of distress or even disbelief on Eliot’s face as Q takes just one more blow is a heady rush. 

Needles hardly hurt at all, Q finds; mainly it’s just a clean, bright feeling and then a lovely floaty sensation. That small tearing of skin, though. The occasional thin trickle of blood. That has Q wanting more. Blades are old familiar frenemies, with their bittersweet release; but now Q doesn’t have to hold the handle, can be a canvas for someone else to cut.

One day, Vi’s friend Alan comes to town, to lead a hook pull. Q didn’t plan to be part of it, but one of the participants pulls out at the last minute, and, jittering with excitement and trepidation, Q takes her place when offered it. The image of that first magazine that Eliot showed them in Venice flits across their mind, along with their then-association to _Hellraiser_. They laugh. They’ve come a long way.

There’s a brief ceremony to clear the space and ground the participants before the ritual of the pull itself. Muggle magic. Q watches the piercers insert hooks into the chest of the man in front of them. They wet their lips. There’s a lot of screaming. Why are they doing this, again? They’ve experienced that level of pain before, and it was neither fun nor transcendent. 

But now it’s their turn. As they pull their shirt off and discard it, they’re reminded of another ritual, what seems like several lifetimes ago. Surely this can’t hurt worse than having a fire cacodemon stuffed into their back.

_Be brave._

It’s—but it’s hard to remember, even shortly after it’s over. Q goes up and away, out of their body, floating among the bright screams. 

Back when Q still thought they were going to graduate from Brakebills, they had already started thinking about a senior project. Q liked the idea of flying to the moon. It’s incredibly unlikely that Q could have pulled it off, given Q’s skillset; but Q imagines that had they done so, coming back down would have felt something like this. 

There are many ways to fly.


	5. Chapter 5

Turning and turning in the widening gyre, Q stretches their wings to their fullest span, warm in the Fillorian sun. Far below, tiny yet distinct in his hunting leathers, Eliot makes passes with what Q’s human thinking knows to be the lure, in a circular motion that reminds Q’s human side of a flogger. Q’s falcon brain does not give a shit about floggers; does not, indeed, currently give a shit about anything but how unfuckingbelievably fantastic the air feels as they dip and soar, sharp and pure.

Eliot turns on one elegantly booted leg; what looks like a defenseless small bird flaps away from him. Q banks and abruptly plummets toward it. They hit the lure at a speed that would break both bird and falling human. It’s immensely satisfying to tear at it with their sharp beak and claws, if not nearly as satisfying as the crunch of small bones and a spurt of hot blood.

Eliot calls, and Q flaps their wings briefly before, somewhat reluctantly, leaving the lure to fly over and perch on one suede-gloved hand. Eliot’s voice rumbles soothingly: the rhythm and cadences of approval. Q preens as Eliot carefully reattaches the leash.

Still talking softly, Eliot strokes Q’s chest feathers. Q flaps and swivels their head after a flash of motion. Eliot holds it up: it’s just the hood, same as last time. Q stills. They’re rewarded by a slip into darkness, and a light pulling sensation as Eliot tightens the braces. 

This, perhaps even more than falcon-flight, is the good part. Q’s frantic little bird nervous system is utterly calmed by the hood, while their human side dims to a contented flicker of consciousness. They couldn’t worry if they tried. Worry is for beings that have a concept of time. There’s nothing left to do but grip Eliot’s thumb and let themselves be carried.


	6. Chapter 6

It takes Eliot saying “Crawford” twice before it registers with Q, not because they were so far under or anything; they’d just barely gotten to the part where Eliot was brandishing the dirty magazines, and Q, to be honest, was having a hard time not giggling. No; Q had almost forgotten that El has a safe word, too. Immediately they feel horribly guilty and embarrassed, followed quickly by firmly repressing it. 

“Okay,” they say, getting off the table and going to El. “What’s going on?”

“Give me a minute.”

“Oh—sorry. I thought ‘Bette’ was ‘I just need a minute.’”

“No.” Eliot closes his eyes. “I mean, I’ll be fine. Just need to stop. Just—“ Q waits.

Eventually, Eliot opens his eyes and smiles at Q. It seems a little forced. “Sorry,” he says. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” says Q. “Um, but, what happened?” Eliot puts up a hand. “Sorry,” Q says. “What do you need?”

“A glass of water. Sparkling, please.” 

Putting it into Eliot’s hand, Q says, “Do you want to maybe sit down?” Eliot lets Q lead him out of the makeshift playroom and into the living room. They both sit, Q nearby but deliberately not crowding him. 

As they watch Eliot sip his water, Q reflects that if anything, they both expected them to be the one to nope out. Anything mental health related is an edge for Q, for fairly obvious reasons, but recently Q’s been wanting to play with some of the medical trappings that they’d never actually experienced, like a straitjacket, or “shock treatments.” They and Eliot discussed it extensively before arriving at the scenario they’d planned: a ludicrously over the top set-up, more Clockwork Orange than state hospital. The premise: Q is there to have their filthy sexuality trained right out of them. Needless to say, there was quite a bit of room for improvisation within those parameters. 

“I’m sorry,” Eliot says again now. With faint irony: “This doesn’t usually happen…”

“El, come on. It’s me.” In truth, Q’s just the tiniest bit relieved as well as disappointed, in the way that their childhood self at an amusement park might have been by a last-minute closure of the scariest roller coaster. Mostly, of course, they’re concerned. “Do you…I mean, only if you want to talk about it.”

Eliot rolls the glass between his fingers.

“So, I told you I’d never gone to the hospital or any kind of program, right?”

Q’s brow furrows. “Right.”

“Well, I almost did. The summer I turned fifteen. My loving parents had something all picked out for me. I only got out of it because they didn’t want to spring for the expense.”

“What happened?”

Eliot offers a small, sharklike little smile. “They found magazines.”

“Oh, El…”

“I know, I know. I should have mentioned something when we were negotiating. It didn’t seem important at the time.”

“Jesus, Eliot.”

“Yes, I’m an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot. I just—so, what, like a conversion thing?”

“Exactly like a conversion thing. I don’t know exactly what it would have consisted of. Presumably a lot of sportsball and other manliness building exercises. Like I said, it was cheaper to just let my older brothers beat the shit out of me. I told them they weren’t mine, I was holding them for a friend.” He snorts faintly. “The irony is that it was actually true. Taylor and I liked the same kind of magazines, although of course we told ourselves and each other that we were really looking at the guys as fitness role models.”

Eliot drinks some more water. “So, when school started again, I made sure to stop talking to Taylor. And when the opportunity arose, I…helped kick the shit out of him. And my brothers finally left me alone.” His lips quirk into another thin smile. “Mostly.”

“Eliot,” Q says again.

“It was a long time ago,” says Eliot. “I didn’t think it would affect me. Especially if I wasn’t the one who was…” He trails off and pauses for a long time.

Q waits.

Eventually, Eliot says, “Was it really awful?”

“What?”

“The hospital.” 

Q blinks. “I mean, it wasn’t…dramatic like we were playing, I told you that. Mostly it’s just a lot of sitting around. But it wasn’t like, I mean, no one had an agenda for me, except to stop being depressed. I’m okay, if that’s what you’re asking. I wasn’t triggered or anything.”

“Good,” says Eliot. “That’s good. I’m sorry I pulled the plug.”

“Don’t be,” says Q.

Still not looking at them, Eliot says, “Q? Do you ever hate me? When we do this? Or after?”

“What?” says Q. “Jesus. No. No, El. How could you even—Eliot, no.”

In a small, low voice that doesn’t tremble much, Eliot says, “Sometimes I just don’t want to be the bad guy.”

Q slides over to Eliot. Spoons into him, puts their arms around them from behind. 

“You’re not the bad guy.” Q kisses Eliot’s cheek. “You are…Eliot fucking Waugh the Spectacular. You are…a genius Magician, an amazing cook, a brilliant designer, unfuckingbelievable in the sack.” 

Eliot opens his mouth to say something, Q stops him with a kiss. “And even when you’re not putting on a production, there’s nobody I’d rather spend time with. You’re the smartest, funniest, kindest person I know.” They kiss Eliot’s chest. “And I love you.” 

Eliot finally cracks a real smile. “You forgot ‘luckiest.’”

Q smiles back. “No, I didn’t.”

They both laugh. They sit like that for some long minutes, Q threading their fingers through Eliot’s soft curls.

Eventually, they get up and begin putting the gear away, together.


End file.
